


The Tragedy of the Commons

by Arati_Mhevet



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, Marxism in action or a West End musical, Unrequited Love, fully automated luxury gay space communism, notes from the Cardassian underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27859074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arati_Mhevet/pseuds/Arati_Mhevet
Summary: Who gave Rom a copy of "The Communist Manifesto"? Who do you think. Set around 'Bar Association'.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 20
Kudos: 58





	The Tragedy of the Commons

**The Tragedy of the Commons**

“The history of all hitherto existing societies is the history of class struggles.” –Karl Marx, _The Communist Manifesto_

["Oh you don’t get me I’m part of the union.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KdOCWUgwiWs) –The Strawbs

Set around ‘Bar Association’.

* * *

Whatever Garak’s childhood dreams might have been (and one was perhaps wise not to probe too deeply here), the pitiless nature of the universe was such that he had spent a substantial part of this morning clearing up the detritus left near the door of the shop by the previous night’s revellers on their way from Quark’s bar to the turbolift.

Rather than hanging around outside the bar, which would put them within sights of the security office and the ever-watchful Odo, the various stragglers from Quark’s had taken to walking round the Promenade as far as the staircase just outside the shop, and loitering there until their last drinks were drunk, their conversation run dry, and their quarters beckoned. For the past week, Garak had arrived at the shop each morning to find empty bottles, abandoned junk food, and a less than pleasant smell. He certainly wouldn’t enter a shop that looked like this, and he didn’t blame anyone else either.

Sighing, Garak stood up, his arms filled with rubbish, to be confronted by the sight of Lieutenant Commander Worf on the far side of the Promenade. Worf was glaring between him and the trash as if he couldn’t quite tell the difference. The sheer cheek. Still, that was Klingons for you. Superiority complex a quadrant wide, and with very little basis in fact. Garak gave his best customer service smile. Worf snarled slightly, then went on his way.

Garak glared after him. _I’ve been living here longer than you, Commander Worf. And knowing my luck, I’ll probably be here long after you’ve gone._

Garak went inside the shop, threw the rubbish into the recycler, and then came out, mopped the floor, and cleaned the windows. Every day now, for the best part of a week. Something would _have_ to be done. He lay in wait just inside the door, and, when the station’s commanding officer came past, he pounced.

“Captain Sisko! Might I have a word?”

Sisko rolled his eyes to the heavens. He had, Garak thought, been more short-tempered than usual since his recent trip to Earth.

“Mr Garak,” said Sisko. “Can this wait?”

“In fact, captain, no, it can’t,” Garak said, and launched into a quick summary of his grievances. Despite the laudable concision (and precision) of his briefing, Sisko was not sympathetic. “Can’t you go and have a word with Quark?”

“I _have_ had a word with Quark,” said Garak. “He says that they’re not on his premises and therefore not his responsibility.”

“He does have a point.”

“Captain,” he tried his best card, “this is a slippery slope. What comes next? Gangs gathering at night on the Promenade? Hanging around in the shadows, threatening any passing stranger? Brawling on the Promenade? Where will it _end_?”

Sisko laughed. “It’s just a couple of late-night drinkers, Garak! Look, I understand your frustration, but I’m not sure what I can do right now, and I really have to go—”

“If this were the other way round,” said Garak, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice, “you would most certainly lean upon me on Quark’s behalf.”

“Well, unless you were intending to make a riotous knitting circle a regular fixture on the Promenade, I don’t see that eventuality arising.” Sisko was already moving away. “Speak to Odo, Garak!”

 _One day_ , thought Garak, watching through narrowed eyes as Sisko strode off towards Ops, _I am going to crack you open like a_ canka _nut._

There was no point talking to Odo. After the unfortunate business in the holosuite over that ridiculous spy business he was loath to ask for favours and, even more so, unwilling to put himself in debt. Also, the constable was sulking about Shakaar and unlikely to be in the mood to spread a little kindness. Garak locked the shop, and headed round to the bar.

“Quark!”

Quark, doing something not entirely clear to one of the _dabo_ tables, looked up guiltily.“Garak? What do you want?” Quickly, he moved in for the sell. “An early morning _kanar_? Some _pritha_ eggs on flatbread to go? Or are you going to break my holosuite again?”

“I want to know what you’re going to do about the mess outside my shop—”

Quark shook his head. “Nuh huh. No. We’ve talked about this. It’s not my space—”

“It’s not my space either, but it’s causing me trouble. And they’re _your_ customers!”

“Not by the time they’ve left.” Quark grinned. “Hey, why not have a word with them yourself? Use some of that famous charm?”

“Quark,” Garak said, through gritted teeth, “they’re Bajorans. If I draw attention to the shop, they’ll probably smash the windows.”

“Occupation not such a good idea after all, eh?” Quark bared his teeth in return. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal of this. It’s just some tidying up—”

“It’s not just some tidying up! It’s wasted half my morning!”

“Still less of a mess than you lot left behind on Bajor. Besides, a bit of hard work never did anyone any harm. Speaking of which… Rom!” he yelled. “Where are you?”

There was a soft mumble, and Rom, blinking, materialised from beneath the bar. Quark started shouting instructions at him, and then caught sight of Garak again. “Are you still here?”

“Quark—”

“Garak, it’s not my problem. Look, is there anything else? Or do I have to call Odo and tell him you’re harassing me?”

Gathering his dignity, and with considerable reluctance, Garak retreated. He was more than an hour late opening up – and this was clearly going to need more thought. 

* * *

The following morning, the situation was as bad as ever, if not worse. Garak stood in the door of the shop, looking viciously at the empty bottles and contemplating his next move, when he heard shuffling feet and a quiet, almost sorrowful, voice.

“Hello.”

It was Rom, holding a mop and bucket. Garak glared at him, with slightly more of his old self than he usually put on show. Rom stepped back, bumping up against the spiral staircase. He brought the handle of the mop down, at an angle, as if to put a barrier between them. As if that could stop anyone with the skill and the inclination to get past. 

“Are you here on an embassy from your brother?” said Garak.

“Ex….cuse me?”

“What does Quark want, Rom?”

Rom’s jaw went slack. “Oh. No. Nothing. I’m here…” He waved the bucket back and forth. It clattered against the metal staircase and he jumped. “Here! To help.”

Garak stared at him untrustingly. “ _Help?_ ”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not fair." Rom gave a hopeless smile. "You shouldn’t have to clear this up.”

“And you should?”

“Someone from the bar should help,” said Rom. “And I don’t mind.”

Garak wondered what the catch might be. “Won’t you be late for work?”

“I’m always late for work. It’s not possible not to be late for work. I’m not ever _not_ supposed to be at work.”

Garak was starting to think that perhaps there was no catch. That Rom was here out of the goodness of his heart. “But he’ll dock your pay—”

“If not for this then for something else.”

Garak threw up his hands. What could be done in the face of such genuine _selflessness_? “I suppose I can’t exactly stop you.”

When they were done (and it did seem to take less than half as long), Garak made them both a cup of redleaf tea.

“Never tried this,” said Rom. He smacked his lips and gulped it down. “Fruity. I… like it!”

“So do I,” said Garak.

Rom flipped a tiny screwdriver from his pocket. “I... could fix that light fixture over there, if you like? It’s been flickering away for aaages.”

“Be my guest,” said Garak. He stood and watched, observing how quick and clever Rom’s hands were. There was considerably more to him than met the eye. Just one, small fumble, when Bashir and Leeta walked past, and their laughter – young and playful – cascaded into the shop. Garak almost missed Rom’s reaction – but once seen, perfectly understood. The love, the longing.

 _If only_ , thought Garak, sipping his tea, _there was a way of making her appreciate you_.

* * *

Garak turned this conundrum over in his mind for some days. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. Bashir’s current preoccupation with Leeta meant lunch had been postponed several times. In the meantime, Garak got through _Cranford_ (it took him about an hour, and while slight was certainly charming), and was sufficiently interested to start _Mary Barton_. In lieu of further direction from the doctor, he moved on to _North and South_. This proved something of a revelation and opened a significant line of background research. By the end of the week he had polished off _The Condition of the Working Class in England_ , several minor essays, chunks of Proudhon (for context), most of Kropotkin, and skimmed the contents of three or four separate courses on related topics from a handful of old and prestigious universities on Earth.

He was absolutely shocked by everything he learned.

“What are you reading right now?” said Odo, over breakfast.

Garak tapped the padd on which _The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists_ was foremost, and said, “I have spent the last week reading a series of lengthy complaints by a motley rabble of human malcontents. What is it, Odo, about that species, that seems to _delight_ in disorder?”

Odo was nodding. “They do seem to thrive on chaos…”

“It’s disgraceful. It would never happen on Cardassia.”

“Hmm,” said Odo, and looked past Garak’s ear.

“What?” Garak said softly. “Is there bad news?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but—”

“But not good news.” Garak gave up on his breakfast. His fists clenched and unclenched. He knew what was going on. Civil disturbances. Riots. Everything falling apart. The last he’d heard, there were outbreaks of disease… None of this would be happening if the Order was intact. But all that was left was Garak, and here he was, as far away as he had ever been…

“I should open up,” he said, unhappily.

Odo, mercifully, said no more, only nodded, and kept him company as they walked round the Promenade. As they went, Garak wrestled his mind away from Cardassia, and back to the problem at hand. What could be done? What could be _done_ …?

Approaching the shop, Odo’s eyes widened at the rubbish heaped by the door. “Garak,” he said, “do you want me to have a word with Quark about this?”

But Garak wasn’t listening. Wheels were busy turning in his head, that satisfying whir and click he always heard as the pieces fell into place. “No, thank you, constable,” he said, absently. Rom was already trotting towards them, mop and bucket in hand. “I think, between us, Rom and I have everything in hand.”

* * *

Later that day, Garak finally pinned Bashir down for a long-overdue supper at Quark’s. Noisy, yes, but the Replimat was depressing in the early evening, and, besides, he wanted to keep an eye on things.

“You read _North and South_?” Bashir looked startled. “That was going the extra mile!”

“I did like the other one,” said Garak. “Just, as I say—”

“I know, not enough murders. You didn’t say that about _Pride and Prejudice_.”

“That book,” said Garak, severely, “is _full_ of murders.”

“Did you like it? _North and South_ , I mean?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just that the subject matter might, well, seem…”

“Seem what?”

“I don’t know. Outré?”

“Outré?”

“The strike.”

“The strike…” Garak carefully contemplated what to say next. “That was shocking, yes.”

“Shocking?” Bashir’s face lit up, beautifully, brought to life as ever by these encounters they had. _And yet still he is dating Leeta_ … Garak, pressing his hands against the table, began to marshal his carefully prepared assault on Elizabeth Gaskell. 

“What I do not understand,” he said, “is this desire to document the ugly side of life. The disorder. The disruption. The dissent.”

“You know,” said Bashir, shovelling food into his mouth (his rate of eating always matched the pace of the discussion). “It was all very timely—”

“Timely? It’s _unseemly_ , doctor. Almost unhealthy. Worse than that, it’s _dangerous_ —”

“Books like these, Garak – Dickens, too, can’t believe I haven’t tried you on him yet – they were necessary interventions—”

“That sounds _horribly_ painful.”

“People were suffering,” said Bashir. “Really, it was dreadful—”

“People suffer all the time.”

“The exploitation in these places – the mines, the factories – it was appalling!”

“Again, nothing new.”

Bashir leaned back in his chair. “Something,” he said, “ _had_ to be done.”

“By which you mean taking to the streets, causing trouble, banding together in opposition to the state – what did they call it?”

“You mean forming a union?”

“Yes. That.” Garak shuddered. “I assume there was a revolution somewhere, eventually.”

“There were quite a few at the time. And then a few more, half a century later.”

“And I bet they turned out badly.”

“Well—”

“They always do.”

“But people were _suffering_!”

“They suffer under revolutions too. No, doctor – this kind of unruliness, it only ever leads to more pain. Best not to go down that route in the first place. The verbal murders of Jane Austen are far more preferable, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m not sure I do,” said Bashir. But his attention was wandering. Garak didn’t need to look to see where. The _dabo_ tables were busy tonight.

“Anyway, doctor, it’s been a long day, and I imagine I shall have an early start tomorrow.” He wiped the corners of his mouth delicately and stood up. “Thank you for another stimulating conversation. Do try not to start any civil unrest before we meet again.”

Bashir laughed. He was already out of his chair and heading towards Leeta. At the door to the bar, Garak looked back to see them smiling at each other. Ah well. At least the idea had been seeded. His eye fell upon Rom, behind the bar, mournfully watching.

 _Solidarity, comrade_.

* * *

“Really, Rom,” Garak said, the next morning, arriving at the shop to find the little figure already hard at work, “you should at least wait until I get here—”

“Oh, I need to get to the bar as soon as I can. Quark isn’t pleased I’ve been coming here. He thinks I’m tired before I get to work.”

“If it’s causing you trouble with your brother,” Garak said gently, “you shouldn’t come.”

“Oh, it’s all right. I don’t mind. I’m nearly done.”

Garak, with a sigh, opened up and went to get them both a cup of tea. They stood together in the doorway, watching the rest of the Promenade wake up.

_Workers of the world, unite…_

“You know,” said Garak, “you really should get your ear looked at.”

“My ear?”

“It looks very painful. No wonder you’re tired.”

“Oh, it’s fine.”

“Still,” said Garak. “You can’t be too careful.” He reached out to take the empty cup and, as Rom handed it over, Garak quietly slipped a data rod into the other man’s jacket pocket and waved him on his way. _A spectre is haunting the Promenade_ , he thought, as he went inside to start the day. He was fairly sure Rom would read the whole thing. After all, it was very short.

Two days later the bar was shut.

* * *

Around lunchtime on the third day of the strike, Garak took a walk around the upper level of the Promenade. His plan had been to observe the demonstration outside the bar, but his viewing point was occupied. Bashir and O’Brien were loitering there, looking for all the world like Jake and Nog. That shouldn’t be allowed either, Garak thought. Young men lurking outside with nothing to do was a recipe for trouble. Back home, the constabulary would issue on-the-spot work penalties. Nine days of civic labour generally persuaded them to find better uses for their time. And yet Odo, who should know better, let them peacefully assemble…

Garak came to stand beside the other two men and looked down thoughtfully at the melee. He listened a while to their exchanges.

“Oh no, not Kaga!” said Miles, in dismay.

“Good old Jabara,” said Bashir. He saw Garak and smiled brilliantly. ““We’re trying to guess who'll cross the picket line,” he explained. “It’s proving very illuminating. And occasionally shocking.”

“I can imagine,” said Garak, betting himself thirty _leks_ that Worf would cross.

Bashir looked at him fondly. Garak’s heart thumped in his chest, softly, and ever so painfully.

“You wouldn’t go in, would you, Garak?” said Bashir.

“What, _him_?” O’Brien laughed. “Strike-breaker if ever there was.”

An exquisite crease furrowed Bashir’s brow. “That’s rather —”

“Garak’d be coming at them with a nightstick,” said O’Brien cheerfully. “No, worse than that. Agent provocateur. Stirring them up to do something rash.”

Time to stop this line of discussion, Garak thought, before O’Brien inadvertently struck gold. “Dr Bashir is quite correct, Chief,” he said smoothly. “I would most certainly not cross a picket line.”

“See!” said Bashir, happily.

 _Thump_. And Garak, who was constitutionally incapable of stopping himself from engaging in self-sabotage, immediately went on, “On Cardassia, I would hardly have the opportunity. This kind of thing is discouraged _long_ before it reaches such a shameful stage.”

“Told you,” said O’Brien, smugly. “Nightsticks. Electroshocks, probably.”

Garak neither confirmed nor denied. He was too concerned at the sight of Bashir’s face, falling. Garak, his heart plunging in commensurate freefall, immediately swore to lead a revolution through the streets of the capital itself if such was needed to restore that golden smile. His head, meanwhile, moved swiftly to suppress such insubordinate and sentimental notions. With some irritation, he said, “This might seem like innocent fun from up here, but nobody wants to be in the middle of a riot.”

“Oh, _Garak_ ,” said Bashir, with a sigh, and shook his head.

Garak walked on. Later that evening, stopping near the bar to observe the enchanting sight of O’Brien and Worf (and, yes, Bashir) being dragged off to the holding cells, he took the opportunity to tell to a frazzled Sisko, “I told you things were getting out of hand on the Promenade.”

* * *

After that, everything clicked nicely into place. Garak stayed in the shop, focusing quietly and virtuously on his needlework while everything unfolded. Another Ferengi arrived on the station, Quark got beaten up, everyone got a pay rise, and Rom quit. And then, to his considerable satisfaction, Sisko put his head round the door and said, “Mr Garak, I owe you an apology. You caught me on a bad day. I’ll have a word with Quark. He’s keen to build bridges after the last week.”

Garak inclined his head in acknowledgement. Later, he popped into Quark’s, to show there were no hard feelings, and sat at his usual table on the upper level, looking down. Rom entered with a spring in his step, and Leeta came over and chatted with him for a while. She seemed impressed with his new technician uniform. Garak nodded. He'd worked particularly hard on that.

Bashir arrived, slightly late, dashing up the steps and falling delightfully into the seat opposite. “Have you heard? Worf’s moved onto the _Defiant_. Can’t stand all the chaos.”

“I must say,” said Garak, suppressing a smile, “that I have some sympathy with the commander. Still, it’s nice to see things getting back to normal. Order, you might say, has been restored."

Bashir beamed across the table. Garak basked in his warmth. A lot of effort, he thought, for comparatively small gain, but you had to put the hours in, and reading hardly counted as work. Besides, it all came in useful, a few years later, when he was tasked with building a civilization again, from the ground up.

* * *

_3 rd December 2020_


End file.
